


A very good reason not to have a Lolita poster on your bedroom wall

by failsafe



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsafe/pseuds/failsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't the first time Kate had been staring at that poster, thinking about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A very good reason not to have a Lolita poster on your bedroom wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/gifts).



> Canon divergent in the sense of their relationship dynamic and the meaning of that poster and also in the sense that it may fit after #10 but it may not. I tried to avoid committing to that even though it's heavily implied. Hope you enjoy it!

The sound that came out of Kate's mouth when she entered her apartment completely lacked composure. Closing her door and locking it behind her went smoothly, but then she was screeching. Only, it wasn't screeching—that was too loud and too high pitched for what she heard herself doing. It was close, but there was something low and disgusted and raging about it, too.

Then, it died away and she was left in breathless silence.

The jingle of her keys hitting the nearest visible and available surface when she tossed them weakly in that direction rattled her out of just panting. She still pressed one hand to the back of the door and brought it up to support her forehead, putting some place between herself and the cool surface, inching away.

“Okay, okay,” she coaxed herself, just taking deep breaths for a moment. This shouldn't have been that big a deal. It wasn't the first time she'd argued with a man. Not even Clint. But it felt... different.

Standing still and alone at the entrance of her apartment had a strange sense of foreboding to it now. For a while, she'd been content that she was just going to stay here, have a normal life that didn't hurt anybody, put up her bow and arrow for good. Then Clint came along.

Clint had needed her help.

And she thought she'd just taken that option off the table, and she couldn't decide if she hated him or herself for it. She knew she was right. He wasn't allowed to yell at her just because he'd had a bad day, just because he'd fucked up, but her apartment was dark and quiet without even so much as a dog, and it was strange how much that felt like shit. She'd never really noticed before.

She pushed herself back away from the door and turned around, a little bit of a blur in her own mind as she passed through the doorway into her bedroom.

“Home again,” she hummed to herself, trying to force herself to believe in a sense of normalcy. Only that wasn't going to happen because with or without Clint, she wasn't hanging up her costume or _her_ name for anything. Not anymore.

She peeled her clothes off down to her underwear, staring down at her jeans and t-shirt in their crumpled pile on the floor. She abruptly kicked them just under the edge of her bed, not having the patience for anything else as she tugged her hair out of its ponytail. She usually wasn't even a jeans, t-shirt, ponytail kind of person. Being around Clint Barton, watching the fallout of his stupid decisions. What was worse, she felt the weight of them too, like a whirlpool tugging her down some kind of drain. But that was enough with the stupid metaphors.

On her back on the bed, Kate just tried to breathe out the tension, letting herself shiver at the cool air touching her skin.

On the wall, there was a _Lolita_ poster. And the reasons she'd put it there in the first place had nothing to do with where her mind went. Where it'd gone at least once before.

“Damn it,” she said, raising her voice to herself as she held her head to each side, level with her temples. She rubbed up and down, clutching dark hair gently and then tightly in her fingers.

It'd been a while since she'd felt so stupid.

The last time she'd thought about Clint, staring up at that poster, it had gotten a little out of hand. At the time it'd felt harmless.

What Clint didn't know, at least _from her_ , couldn't and wouldn't hurt him...

So at the time, it hadn't seemed like it mattered one night after the adrenaline rush, after the coming back down and lying around on Clint's sofa for a couple of hours—shoulder to shoulder and slipping a few stolen sips of his beer—when she came back to her apartment and ended up right here on her back, panties and a camisole, looking up at that same poster. Heat stayed in the core of her body, unspent energy and she started doing the math in her head—Clint wasn't _that_ much older than her. She was a big girl, could handle herself.

Two fingertips didn't waste much time getting slipped beneath her panties, working a little circle until they found the hardened nub of her clit. A sound caught in her throat and she was pushing her two fingers inside, squirming at her waist because there wasn't any pressure on her clit.

She couldn't help wondering what he'd be like in bed. She knew that he kept some women coming back, and it wasn't just his looks.

But maybe it was some of that. And she was imagining his near-clean shave that wasn't quite there scruffing against her shoulder or the back of her neck. His fingers, wider that hers pressing in and out of her, driving her crazy.

 _'I don't want to sleep with you,'_ he'd told her once. But she wondered if that was really true. She couldn't be the only one with a little bit of a cloudy head when she was breathing against his shoulder and he was breathing against her hair. At some point in time, he had to have wondered if she'd climb over into his lap. He was Clint Barton, and he was flawed, and for just a second that was hot, if it meant he'd think that. Her fingers trying to hook inside herself, she kind of wanted to be bouncing, grinding on his lap, watching his face and watching his world unravel in her eyes.

Coming on her hand, hard and fast and with rigid, tensing legs, thinking about Clint Barton and staring up at a _Lolita_ poster.

At the time, it hadn't seemed like such a bad idea.

Now, she was mad at herself for being so stupid. But it was coursing through her head again and she hated it even more than she had before.

He was a bad idea. He wasn't a bad person, but he was a terrible boyfriend. And she'd talked out on him.

And she was trying to come to terms with just leaving it at that, but she was aching in her chest.

And come to think of it, the heat that she'd felt that night, deep in the pit of her stomach, was back. Pressing down deep inside her, wanting out, and making her squirm. It was like frustration mixed with something that burned like hate—only she didn't hate Clint. She didn't know how and then it wasn't just the pit of her stomach that was burning but behind her eyes, too.

“Shit. Damn it, Clint. Why do you have to be such an idiot... _futz-up_?” she said. Apparently, she was an idiot, too.

She shut her eyes, breathing in and breathing out, trying to clear her head.

And then she proceeded to nearly jump out of her skin when there was a rhythmic, tapping little knock at her door. And she shut her eyes tighter, wincing because she knew who it was. She knew who it had to be, and she didn't even open her eyes at first to sit up, tugging on a robe that was draped across the end of her bed and only looking down to tie it securely.

When she got up and moved to the door, she felt a little bit of dampness right between her legs. There was no way this was happening, but she stubbornly trudged to the door, looking through the peephole to make sure.

“Katie,” Clint tried. And he sounded lost and broken and Kate's hand went down to the doorknob. She took a deep breath and opened the door in a smooth, fast motion.

“What the hell do you want?” she asked, leaning against the door and only just realizing that it slid her short robe a little higher up her thigh. She glanced down and swallowed hard, looking up to catch Clint's gaze doing the same. Damn it.

“... Hi,” Clint said as he blinked and got a bit bug-eyed when they met eyes again.

“Hi,” Kate answered. She folded her arms over her chest and then made another bad decision. “You ready to not yell at me and act like a big boy?” she demanded. And that was some weak negotiation, given what she needed from him, but she couldn't help it. And she hated that, too, because she wanted Clint to quit thinking he constantly had a case of the _can't-help-its_.

“Yeah. Kate, I tried to—“ Clint said, holding up a wrinkled, coffee-stained piece of paper. There was no other explanation offered except a contrite look downward—all the way to the floor and this time not at her thighs.

“... Come in?” Kate suggested. She couldn't fix him, and she couldn't fix herself. So when he stepped through the door, she stepped in and crowded his space. He reacted, but after a little dance of ducking down and tiptoeing, she managed to get his lips. And when she didn’t get pushed away, she knew this was probably making a mistake.

“Katie—“ he finally protested.

“... You're not a bad person, right?”

“No. No, Katie, I'm... trying not to be. What the hell are—“

“Ssshh,” Kate coaxed. “Just... come talk to me?”

“You, uh, wanna put some pants on?”

“No.”


End file.
